


Watching

by mortuus_lingua



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Dom/sub Play, Gags, I Don't Even Know, M/M, Mating, Mild Kink, Porn With Plot, Wingfic, references to violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-21
Updated: 2012-08-21
Packaged: 2017-11-12 14:02:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,268
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/491867
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mortuus_lingua/pseuds/mortuus_lingua
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lately, watching has turned into something else. Then one night Castiel's wings manifest.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Watching

**Author's Note:**

> Everything's consensual, so nothing too triggery, I hope. References to a violent but consensual first time; nothing graphically violent.
> 
> Please to excuse the rampant inner dialogue; it seems it's the only way I can hook into Castiel's motivations.

Dean lay sprawled, face-down and fast asleep in the hotel bed. The one lamp on the side table had been turned down, but not off, and in its dim light Castiel let his eyes trace the lines of graceful bone and muscles under burnished skin, the jaw of a side-turned face lax in sleep, the strong neck, shoulders, and the line of an amazingly graceful spine.

He enjoyed looking at Dean; there had never been a time in their acquaintance when he hadn’t found himself watching every nuance of expression and every detail of his being. At first it’d been fascination with the person of Dean, the Righteous Man, the destined one whom Castiel would be forever tied to. He had wondered: why this man? Why had he been chosen? And deeper yet – why do I feel this thread of connection… an angel to a man?

Then it had turned into necessity – to emulate, to fit in, to understand this mortal world. Castiel was still a poor imitator of humanity, and he suspected he would remain so, unlike his brother Gabriel. On the other hand, if his observations of Dean had merely made him a mere novice at learning about how people behaved, it had created an expert in this one particular human being. He had become a Dean specialist.

For example, Dean rarely slept as he slept this night – nude and unguarded. Cas could recall finding him fully clothed on nights when he had fallen asleep without even getting under the covers, and even when there had been time to disrobe, he still seem more covered than most people when he slept. In the beginning, Cas had not understand how this seeming modesty appeared out of character for someone who rarely nodded at conventional virtues. It wasn’t until Castiel had realized that Dean was a bit more lax in his modesty when not sharing a bedroom with his brother, or when sharing a bedroom with a sexual partner, that he understood that Dean’s modesty was situational. In this context, then, Castiel knew that one large bed in the hotel room meant that Sam was out of town, and a sprawled, nude Dean smelling of soap meant that there was no case to keep him from taking a leisurely shower before sleeping.

All this, he’d learned about Dean when he was merely studying him. Now, the enjoyment was much more visceral.

Dean, he mused as he slid his coat off and folded carefully over the chair behind him, was beautiful. Even when ugly. Especially when uncertain. Most especially asleep, with a thin sheet doing little to disguise the shape of his ass. That was another thing Castiel had learned from Dean, the simple appreciation of physical beauty in addition to the spiritual.

The man shifted on the bed, his breath becoming audible. He began to wake. Cas, his finger beginning to loosen the tie at his throat, stilled.

“Dean,” he murmured, just that one syllable, but the man groaned a little, and his eyes slit open to glance out of their corners at him, the dark lashes hiding their color.

“Hey, Cas,” he rasped. “Warn a guy, would you? How long’ve you been watching me?”

Castiel refrained from replying that he had just warned Dean by saying his name, and merely continued to watch avidly as Dean roused himself, rubbing at his face sleepily and sitting up under the negligible cover of the sheet to look at the angel at the foot of his bed. Dark green eyes flicked over him, to the finger hooked into his tie, to the coat folded over the back of the chair, and lastly to Castiel’s expression.

“You pissed, Angel-cake? ‘Cause the last time someone looked at me like that…” The man stopped, and huffed a short, wry laugh. “…well, you were there. I don’t have to tell you what happened.”

“I do not understand how anger and carnal desire can be mistaken for one other,” Castiel told him, then blinked. “In someone’s expression,” he amended, recalling that, indeed, mistaking anger and carnal desire is what had brought them to this pass.

Dean ran a slow hand up and down the back of his neck, and yawned. “Well, let’s just say, a slap and a kiss are cousins, sometimes.” Dean looked at Castiel’s tie. “You need some help there?”

Castiel considered Dean, his nudity, his unselfconsciousness in his presence, the eyes taking him in appreciatively. “No, I do not need your help,” he replied, almost a snap.

Dean sat up straighter. “All right,” he said, cautiously, and watched as the tied loosened and slipped free. His eyes followed its progress.

The angel let it fall to the foot of the bed, and tilted his head,again watching Dean closely. The man swallowed and shifted slightly under the sheet. Being a Dean specialist, Castiel understood what that meant and almost, almost smiled. However, smiling was not required in this situation and Dean would not want a break in the mood, not yet. He began to flick open the buttons of his dress shirt, one at a time. Dean tracked his fingers with hungry eyes, lips parting. It was a very good look for the hunter, one that Castiel appreciated. Dean’s mouth was a study all on its own, its lush expressiveness.

The shirt was done. Untucking it, Castiel shrugged out of it and folded it over his coat. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Dean’s chest rise and fall, breath quickening, and a hand surreptitiously slid under the sheet. “No,” he said, and the hand stilled. “Come here.”

It was as if Dean had been waiting for the command; perhaps he had been impatiently anticipating it. He got to his knees, the sheet sliding from him, and shifted over to the foot of the bed. Castiel saw that he was hard.

This was a relatively new learning experience, new enough to be startling, even a bit alien. An angel lodged in a human vessel typically provided the earthly flesh with a sort of immortality. Many needs no longer applied: eating and sleeping especially, because angels did neither and so did not require it of their vessels, providing the borrowed flesh freedom from these requirements. However, angels were not sexless, despite some rather offensive references in movies, and not only had sexual organs, but every once in a while used them. It wasn’t their primary function; God had never told his angels to multiply, for instance. But angels had sex organs, and their vessels did, too, and this resulted in a sympathetic connection, but generally not much understanding. The sex organs were similar, but the drive generally was not. Castiel’s small experience in sex, angelic or human, had severely limited his understanding of Dean, and ultimately of himself.

“Hey,” Dean murmured. “Staring at it only gets you so far.”

Castiel blinked, glancing up, and remembered the first time he’d stared like this. Their first sexual congress had been unexpected for both of them, in the midst of a fight. He’d been angry, anger born of heartache and emotional betrayal. All he had known was that he was enraged beyond his control, and somewhere within the shouting and the blows, it had turned unexpectedly to arousal. Although he’d started it, his inexperience would have resulted in a humiliating, stilted end had Dean not known exactly what was happening… had Dean not wanted Castiel as equally.

Castiel reached down and slid the tongue of his belt from the buckle. Dean’s eyes riveted to the movement, and sat back, shifting his legs over the side of the bed. Castiel tilted his head again, and opened his hands, dropping them away. The hunter didn’t hesitate, taking over the operation, quickly dealing with the belt. He opened the pants and was unzipping them when he paused, licked his lips and glanced slowly up at Castiel, uncertain.

Dean Winchester, all surety and action, never failed to draw Castiel like a flame with an uncertain look, a slight hesitancy. Had Anael also found that unexpected hesitancy attractive?

“You _are_ pissed off,” Dean rasped, and dropped his hands.

“No,” Castiel said, as definitely as he could manage. No, how could he be angry? Ana had had so little after she’d Fallen. He could never begrudge her any small happiness, considering his own role in that tragedy. Still, he was having difficulty not dwelling on it, on the thought of Ana and Dean together.

Apparently the Winchester men pursued specific types in their romantic liaisons – Sam possessed an unfortunate fascination with demonic women, and Dean seemed to have a strange attraction for angels, particularly the rebellious ones.

“Gabriel cannot have you,” he blurted, and then snapped his mouth shut, mortified.

Dean’s grin was surprised and little evil. “ _Duuude_. What the hell.”

“I…” Castiel was not sure he could articulate the leaps of logic his mind had made. He glanced down instead. “You have stopped.”

“Yeah, I wonder why.” To Castiel’s dismay, Dean sat back and stared up into his eyes. “You wanna tell me how good old tricky Gabe wound up on your mind?”

Castiel answered quite honestly. “No.”

“Well, give it a shot anyway.” Dean’s stubborn expression reminded Castiel of a dog with a bone, not yet ready to let loose.

“You have… a type.”

Dean considered this, running his lower teeth over his upper lip. “Huh. Yeah, I suppose. Breathing’s kind of necessary. Willing and breathing.” He chuckled at Castiel’s frown. “Look, I get it. You think I have a thing for angels. But, Cas, two…uh…” He huffed, a hectic flush staining his cheeks. “… two lovers doesn’t make a pattern. And Gabe? Never in a million years.”

Castiel swallowed at the word ‘lovers.’ It was the first time he’d heard Dean use it in conversation, and from Dean’s expression, he was not comfortable using it.

“We clear? This jealousy thing, it’s hot.” He rubbed at the bridge of his nose. “Look. I’ll only say this once, because I’m losing man-points by the minute. You give me what I need; I don’t need anything else.”

Castiel swallowed again, and nodded, awed.

“You hearing me loud and clear?”

“Yes, Dean. I understand.”

Dean arched his eyebrows at him, his eyes taking in his lover’s expression. “Good, because I hate talking about this stuff.” He took a deep breath, and arrowed his gaze downward. His mouth slowly curved into a leer. “You remember that night we got drunk?”

“The night you got me drunk.”

“Yeah, that was the point. But you remember, right?”

“Parts of it.” Castiel remembered the beginning quite clearly, seemingly endless bottles of whiskey lined up on a kitchenette counter and two shot glasses. The middle was indistinct; heat and desperation, Dean under him yelling hoarsely to do it, yeah, like that, over and over again. The end was only one moment in time – Dean sweaty, bruised, sleepy-eyed and grinning blissfully. _Now_ that’s _what I call a successful experiment._

“Well, hell, Cas. You remember that you fucked me through the mattress, at least?” At Castiel’s look of consternation, he added: “Not literally. You just did me hard and dirty.” He cleared his throat. “Guess I liked it.”

Parts of the night had passed in a haze, but Castiel agreed that, yes, Dean had liked it, had liked being pushed down, roughly handled and penetrated. He was not certain it had been a revelation for both of them, but it certainly had been a revelation to him. It had made Castiel more aware of moments like this, when it was clear that Dean wanted something very specific from him.

He slanted a look at Dean’s face, waiting for the hunter to meet his eyes again. When he did, the angel nodded. “I do not remember much of that night, except that we enjoyed it… and I hurt you.”

Dean’s face shifted swiftly into concern. “Good hurt, Cas. Hell, if you really hurt me, I would have socked you in the balls.”

“How am I to tell?”

“Gee, I don’t know. Maybe if I told you to stop?”

“You told me to stop when we fought, but then…”

Dean blew out some air. “Look. That was an exception. We were both hot and bothered, and you were really angry and it turned me on. I didn’t see that coming. Hell, it was the shocker to end them all. I told you to stop when your fist was slamming into my jaw, not when we made out against the chain link fence.” Dean’s eyes softened in memory. “And the brick wall. And in the panic room…”

Castiel felt himself blushing. He had never felt so out of control until the day when Dean’s self-defeatist and suicidal behavior pushed him to the brink of personal and violent indignation. He’d sacrificed everything for Dean, and even if the hunter had not asked to be pulled from perdition by an angel, he had encouraged an angel to rebel, and Cas’s Fall had been as much about Dean as it had been about his doubts about his brother angels and his Father. The rage that had come forth from watching the hunter give up his will, and even his life, had consumed him. He had battled angels and demons with less fury than what he had visited upon Dean that day.

Yet, merely the grasping of Dean’s hands on his shoulders and shocked, bewildered, burning eyes meeting his had transformed that rage into something else. True, once blows had turned to grappling and biting kisses, Dean had never said “stop.” He had not said much of anything coherent, actually. Neither had Castiel.

“You will tell me to stop if I …”

Dean grinned, relieved. “Yeah, you can bet on it.” He reached again for Castiel’s pants, finishing a process he’d begun. He hummed in approval and curved a hot palm around the prominence under one layer of cloth. “That’s better,” he muttered. “I really, really need you to fuck me, Cas. Think you could do that? Fuck me hard?”

Castiel gulped, wide-eyed. “I – I think so. If it is what you want…”

“Good, because I’ve been thinking about it a lot. It’s goddamned embarrassing, actually. You ever think about it, Cas?”

“…yes.” He stared down as Dean carefully released him from his clothes. He had thought about it far too often, all the time in Dean’s presence, and most of the time when not.  
Dean deliberately wet his lower lip, staring up at Castiel with dark eyes. Castiel didn’t know why, but something in that look, that gesture made him shiver in want. “Yes,” he repeated, and reached out with more sureness than he felt, without a tremble, and traced his thumb over Dean’s lower lip. “I think about it all the time.”

A look of triumphant lust flashed. “Glad I’m not the only one,” Dean said, grinning, and tapped his upper lip provocatively with his tongue. Castiel shuddered, staring, and let drop his hand so that Dean could lean in and flick that tongue against the head of his cock. He took the head in, sucking, paused, and grabbed Castiel’s hand, deliberately placing it on the back of his own head. Castiel tightened his grip on the plush prickle of Dean’s short hair and pressed, guiding that mouth to take him deeper. Dean groaned in appreciation, and rewarded him with hard, slurping suck. Castiel shuddered, gazing down rapturously at Dean’s lips stretched and sliding along his flesh. The pleasure in receiving this act shuddered through his body, but it was the generous impulse behind the act that rolled through him, lit him up as if he were on fire.

Dean had been the farthest thing from a virgin when he’d first kissed Castiel, but he’d never been the initiator of sexual acts with males. Even if Castiel did not think of himself as any particular gender, he was now quite aware that humans took gender identity very seriously, and that the vessel or adopted body’s sex often determined how humans reacted to angels. Dean had not hesitated with Anael in a female vessel; whereas it had taken a fistfight and a riot of explosive emotions for Dean to react to Castiel in a male one.

And there was of course Castiel’s fear that Alastair’s “pokes and prods” in Hell might not have been limited to merely knife-work… if such tortures had indeed been wielded against Dean, then this willingness was indeed openhanded.

And pleasurable. Castiel shuddered again, his hand slipping down to cover the imprint of his fingers on Dean’s upper arm, possessive and connective. The hunter groaned and backed off, sloe-eyed and panting, and staring up at the angel expectantly. “Prepare yourself,” Castiel managed, and turned to sit and manage his shoes. The rest of his clothes followed while he heard Dean rummage through his bag, find, and return to the bed. At last Castiel could stand again, unencumbered, only the necktie remaining where he’d left it earlier on the bed. He picked it up in his hand and heard Dean draw in a quick breath.

The man was sitting with his back against the headboard, nude and glorious, gazing at the material in Castiel’s hand, a strange mix of hunger and trepidation in his expression. Castiel examined the tie in confusion, and then understood. “If I gag you, how would you tell me to stop?”

Dean cleared his throat, and croaked: “Tie it so I can take it off if I wanted to.” He glanced away, fidgeting until Castiel told him: “Dean, come here.” He carefully gagged the man and tied the knot into a bow. He took the tube of lubricant and opened it. “Turn over.”

He’d never done this, but the shocking moments when he’d watched Dean open himself up were firmly fixed in memory. Castiel waited until Dean had arranged himself facedown and legs spread before he mounted the bed behind him. So beautiful, that stretch of burnished skin, such a reminder of the potential perfection that existed in humanity. It should always be appreciated with reverence, and very rarely was.

Carefully he pressed two slick fingers into Dean’s heat, mindful as to not hesitate. The man grunted a distorted ‘oh yeah’ into the gag and pressed back to take the fingers deeper. Castiel paused, shivering, feeling his wings mantle, an intense reaction. Their only manifestation to mortal eyes were their shadows, but they were very much a part of the angel’s existence, sexual and otherwise. Even Dean turned his head, as if he’d heard the rustle of feathers, and his eyes widened slightly at Cas. The gag kept him from saying anything coherent, but his expression was appreciative and excited.

“Turn around,” Castiel told him sternly. “Do not look at me.” A frisson of fear stole through him. If he lost the very last of his control, it would be more than his wings that would manifest, and Dean did not have the ability to see his true form without going blind, or worse, mad.

Dean obeyed with surprising speed and spread himself even further for the angel’s fingers. Castiel added a third, to ease the way later, and Dean writhed, grunting. Castiel smacked him on the ass and Dean’s muted “fuck!” came from behind his gag.

“Be still. Do not harm yourself.”

Dean whined but stilled until Castiel judged him to be relaxed enough. He withdrew his fingers and cleaned them in a blink. His wings had relaxed but then Dean shifted his spread knees under himself to present his ass even higher, an unmistakable posture of willing submission. Cas hissed, eyes wide in surprise, as his body electrified, his wings extending out and forward in a snap.

“Close your eyes,” he ordered hoarsely, afraid for Dean but unable to stop himself. He wasn’t sure what was happening. It couldn’t be the mating instinct; Dean was neither female (a historically feasible pairing, although no longer an acceptable practice) nor another angel. Mating instinct, rare though it was among his kind, had clear parameters. Castiel had never experienced the reproductive drive, but he knew the signs to look for, because he had seen it in the mating flights of other angels.

Cas reached down and pressed open Dean’s ass cheeks, feeling dizzy with desire to seat himself into the welcome heat and claim the man beneath him. He groaned in despair, recognizing that such a desire for claiming was indeed one sign of mating instinct, no matter how inappropriate it was to be focused on a male mortal. His wings were mantling again, confirming this new development.

Dean made a questioning sound behind his gag; the tips of Cas’s primary feathers brushed along Dean’s ribs, instinctively attempting to both protectively cover him, and shield him from rival angels. He could stop himself no longer. Every sense was narrowing down to Dean: the posture of his submission, the promise of claiming, and the growing pain of resisting the sexual hunger.

“Hard?” he murmured as he positioned himself against Dean, and the hunter nodded frantically in reply, sweat gleaming along the back of his hairline and beading down his spine. Cas’s hands were irresistibly drawn to the twin divots at Dean’s waist; he grasped there and drove in. Dean yelled triumphantly, or tried to, and Cas keened, futilely trying to reign in cries of conquest pulsing in his throat. He was in, he was in, but it wasn’t enough. He had to fill Dean entirely, mark him, claim him, and especially make sure that no one else could lay claim upon his chosen one, his mate … his …

_Beloved._

His pace was brutal, and he was aware of it, but couldn’t stop, even to see to Dean’s pleasure. His primary feathers continued to flick against Dean’s side, reassuring him that his mate was still there, still under his protection. A sense of euphoria built; with each thrust he was being accepted into the hot grip of Dean’s body. Not merely passively accepted, either; Dean’s muffled cries were growing high pitched and desperate, and he was pushing his hips back as far as could in desperate jabs, clumsily trying to keep pace with Castiel.

Dean’s needy sounds quickened to almost every thrust, and then he began to shake. Cas was unsurprised when his chosen one dragged the gag from his mouth, panting hard.

“Fuck, Cas, fuck!”

“Dean.” He could barely speak, fixated on the feel of Dean under him, around him. “I need…”

Dean groaned, pressing his forehead into the pillow, as if Castiel’s voice had punched him. For a terrified moment, the angel feared his voice had manifested along with his wings, but no… Dean was reacting to something else.

“Can I open… my eyes…?” Dean rasped.

“Yes.” The fear was behind him. If he hadn’t manifested in the midst of this loss of control, it wouldn’t happen.

Dean turned his head, eyes glazed and staring at the wing to his right. “That’s- that’s different,” he panted. “…thought they would be white.”

“I am not an archangel,” Castiel protested, as reasonably as an angel could, whose mate had potentially criticized the color of his wings in the middle of coitus.

“Oh,” Dean grunted, then shuddered. “Oh… g-fuck. Cas, I’m gonna…” He shifted one of his arms from underneath.

“Yes,” Cas said, and drove in as his mate worked himself. Dean was his, in this moment, his entirely. He would fight the instinct to seize more. Humans weren’t like angels; they did not understand the need to hover and possess to the extent that an angel did when he’d found his mate. He would fight to stop himself from chasing Dean away with drives Dean could not understand.

“Uh, thank fuck,” Dean whimpered, and came. His body clamped down on Castiel; the angel shook into his own climax, coming with a strength and desperation that engulfed everything else. Dean collapsed under him and Cas, so unlike himself, went down with him, limp and breathing hard.

He stirred when a touch ran down one of his feathers. Dean’s fingers, gently exploring. He stopped when Castiel shifted off of him. “Sorry,” he muttered.

“It is all right,” Castiel responded. It was, because even if it was only in his own mind, Dean was his mate. A mate could help groom one’s feathers. “I was unaware that they were still manifested.” He watched as Dean quietly reached out again. “You would prefer white?” he asked, attempting to not pout.

“Hell no,” his lover declared. “I love these. They’re like … hawk wings? Falcon wings, yeah. The ticking and the bands down here are more gray than black. Really nice. So, the wings change depending on … what? Status?”

“Angels are born into a rank. The easiest way to understand the rank of a particular angel is the number and color of the wings.”

“Will I get to see them again?” Dean wondered, tracing and straightening the line of one feather, than another. He seemed to have forgotten that his ability to see Castiel’s wings was an indication of the angel’s utter lack of self-control.

Cas watched him, closing his eyes in bliss. “Will you straighten them for me?”  
Dean chuckled. “Can’t seem to resist them, so yeah. Could do.”

Castiel smiled and sighed. “I can predict you will be seeing them quite often, then.”

“Awesome,” Dean murmured, and promptly fell asleep. Castiel arched a wing over him, contentment lulling him as Dean turned toward him, mumbling.

Castiel trailed a hand down his beloved’s arm and for once let himself merely know Dean was there … and stop watching.


End file.
